


waves crashing in

by kinneyb



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Alternate Universe - Pirate, M/M, Roach is a parrot
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-02 03:06:27
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,771
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23897965
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kinneyb/pseuds/kinneyb
Summary: Jaskier was looking for an adventure. What he found was a lonely man.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 9
Kudos: 321





	waves crashing in

**Author's Note:**

> twitter: queermight / tumblr: korrmin

Jaskier walked along the coast after spending a few days in a small port town, the air whipping against his red cheeks. He had been on the road, by himself, for almost seven months.

When he had announced he was leaving at eighteen, his parents had begged him to stay. He had almost caved, because what he was running away from? He had a pleasant life, privileged in many ways. He had been raised in a lovely house with a handful of servants, and his parents certainly had their faults but had always tried their best. But there was something in him that craved _more_. He had tried to squash it, early on, but there was no silencing the voice.

But he had learned, quite quickly, that reality was harsher than any dream.

His parents had been well-off, but far from _rich_. They had given him money for the road, but not nearly enough to fund the lifestyle he was used to. He ran out after four months.

That wasn’t a problem, he had thought, optimistic as ever. He had brought his lute with him for a reason; he enjoyed performing, always had. But he received rotten fruit at his feet, not coins.

Jaskier had been surviving off scraps for months, sleeping in the woods or behind buildings at night. He was debating if he should just return, admit defeat. The world wasn’t what he had dreamed of, not even close. It was cruel and unforgiving.

But this—this was the place he felt safest. This was the place he kept returning to.

Jaskier sighed, taking a deep breath.

His peacefulness was interrupted by a loud _clunk_. Startling, he quickly turned, kicking up sand with his boots. There was a ship being docked, quite an ugly thing compared to the others. Jaskier smiled, mostly bemused, as he approached the docks.

He was nearly knocked off his feet as a few local townsfolk scurried away from the docks, bumping into him. He picked up bits and pieces of their conversation, overpowered by the crashing waves—

“It’s _them_ —”

“Oh, lord have mercy on us—”

Jaskier peered back over his shoulder, watching as they disappeared into town. He heard heavy footsteps and turned back. A few men had jumped off the ship and were now walking down the wooden dock. Jaskier only really noticed one of them.

At the front of the line was a man, white-haired with two swords on his back. Jaskier’s dagger, tucked away in his boot, was nothing compared to them. He noticed, just as quickly, the parrot perched on his shoulder, black as the night sky.

“Beautiful,” he whispered without even realizing it.

One of the men stopped, turning to look at him. “What did ya say?” he called out, smiling nastily. Jaskier visibly startled, taking a step back. “What, you a coward or something?” he continued, nudging one of the other men and laughing.

His heart pounded in his chest, warning him of danger but his feet—his feet were glued to the ground, frozen. The man took a step in his direction and the white-haired man stopped him, a hand on his chest. “Stop it,” he said gruffly. “He’s just a kid.”

“Huh?” he asked in disbelief. “Since when has that ever—” Nothing happened, not from what Jaskier could see, but the man stepped back, clearing his throat. “Fine, whatever.”

The white-haired man never even looked at him. Jaskier watched as the crew of the ship jumped down from the dock and made their way toward the town, carrying what looked like heavy bags of— _something_. Jaskier waited until finally he could move again, _breathe_ again.

Then he did the dumbest thing he could think of: he ran after them.

He found them in the market, bargaining with townsfolk. They had emptied the bags, full of expensive-looking jewelry and other trinkets. The white-haired man did most of the bargaining and trading. Jaskier watched from a few stalls away.

Afterwards, once they had sold or traded everything, they walked to the only tavern in town. Jaskier obviously followed them.

He didn’t know _why_ he was doing it, but he couldn’t stop even if he wanted to. It was like he was being drawn to them by some invisible force. The men secured a table at the tavern, tucked away in a dark corner. Jaskier sat at the bar, watching them.

“Are you going to order something or not?” the server asked, unimpressed with him.

Jaskier just waved him off.

Most of the men left after supper, slowly but surely, until finally there was only one: the white-haired man. Jaskier couldn’t say he wasn’t as intimidating as the others: he was big, and his swords looked well-used. But there was something about him…

Jaskier slid off the stool he had been occupying for the last half hour and slowly walked over, carrying his bag with him. He had just approached the table when—“Are you stupid or just dumb?” the man asked without looking.

He smiled slightly, heart pounding. But in a kind of good way. Like he was _excited_. “Is there a difference?”

“Hmm,” he replied, tapping the table with his fingers. He was badly scarred, from his hands to his neck to his face. And yet he was no less beautiful for it, hair as light as snow and—he looked up, finally—striking eyes. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

Jaskier slid into the chair across from him. “I’m—I’m _bored_ ,” he said, truthfully. “And _you_ , sir, look like you haven’t known boredom a day in your life.” He realized, suddenly: this is what he’d been waiting for. This was _his adventure_.

He breathed out, hard, through his nose. It was a snort, maybe. Jaskier hoped that was a good sign. “Boredom is a _gift_ ,” he drawled, lifting his beer, liquid swishing. “Cherish it.”

Jaskier frowned, swiftly reaching across the table and placing his hand over the top of his beer before he could take a drink. His parroted squealed, wings flapping.

“Roach,” he said calmly. “Calm down.”

The parroted squawked again before quieting down. The man stared at him, still and unmoving. Jaskier held his own, staring back at him. Finally the man’s mouth curled up, almost a smile. He plucked Jaskier’s hand off the top of his beer, just two fingers around his wrist; his fingers were rough against the soft skin of his wrist.

“What are you asking for, exactly?” he questioned, leaning back in his chair.

Jaskier squared his shoulders. “Let me travel with you, and—and your crew.”

“My crew,” he repeated like he was amused by it. “Like the man from earlier?”

Jaskier wasn’t backing down so easily. He nodded curtly. “I’ve been waiting for this.”

“For _what?_ ” he asked, eyeing him skeptically.

He grinned, unable to help himself. “For an _adventure_ ,” he said, a little too honest.

He expected to be laughed at. Or to be told to fuck off. The man did none of that: he looked away, silent for a moment, before nodding. “Okay,” he said, looking back. “But only until our next stop. A month from now,” he clarified before Jaskier could ask. Jaskier wondered briefly if he had done this before, briefly housed a young man or woman and what had happened to them. “By then you will certainly be begging to be let off.”

Jaskier didn’t think so. “Okay,” he agreed, goosebumps on his skin.

*

The thing was, Jaskier had never actually _been_ on a ship. He laughed, feeling unexpectedly giddy, leaning over the railing and watching as fish jumped around in the water, splashing. Geralt—as he had introduced himself—stood near him, arms folded over his chest.

Finally he pulled himself away from the railing. “So,” he said, eyes flickering around the empty ship. “Where are the others?”

Geralt sighed. “Out,” he said simply. Jaskier looked over at him, silent and questioning. He sighed again, leaning against the railing. “Most of them are probably at the local whorehouse, like usual.”

“Oh.” Jaskier couldn’t rightfully shame them for that; he had even considered visiting a whorehouse a few times, down on his luck and lonely. But that _did_ leave the question of—“And you have no interest in joining them?”

Geralt squinted up at the sky. Jaskier examined him, the sharp curve of his jaw, the unexpectedly dark stubble, a stark contrast to his hair, the slope of his nose. He really was beautiful, nothing like what he had imagined as a child when his mother had read him stories about pirates at sea. He was graceful in the way he moved, even as he turned to look at him, still squinting. “I don’t much enjoy bedding with strangers anymore.”

_Anymore_ implied there was a time when he did. He looked older than Jaskier, but not _that_ much older.

“I—I can understand that,” he stammered, feeling oddly exposed as Geralt stared at him. He looked down, scrubbed his boot across the wood, resulting in a satisfying squeak. “But surely there’s something else you could be doing in town.”

He chanced a look at Geralt, no longer watching him. Roach flew back down, landing on his offered arm and squawking. “Crap,” he grumbled, pushing away from the railing.

Jaskier followed after him. “What is it?”

“What do you think?” he asked. “The others are returning.” Geralt looked at him skeptically. “At least _try_ to look a little less scared,” he said, shaking his head as they approached the ladder.

Jaskier pouted, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth once he realized he was doing it. He squared his shoulders, standing with Geralt as the others walked down the long stretch of dock, chattering. But that stopped, rather abruptly, when they realized he was there.

The man from earlier pushed to the front of the crew, smiling sleazily. Jaskier spotted a mark on his neck and suppressed a shudder. He held his head a little higher.

“I always _knew_ you had a thing for men,” he remarked, wagging his eyebrows.

Geralt stared down at him. “If you wish to keep your tongue,” he said, perfectly even, “I would stop talking.” Jaskier almost laughed—surely it wasn’t _that_ easy—but surprisingly the man didn’t reply. Huh, maybe he had underestimated him. “This,” he said, grabbing Jaskier by the arm and dragging him closer, “is Jaskier. He will be traveling with us for the next month.”

A few of the crew members looked interested, others just looked annoyed. Jaskier preferred the latter.

“If you even _think_ about touching him,” he continued, somehow dropping his voice even lower, “I will personally make sure you no longer have a hand to do so with.” Geralt paused, eyes flickering around the group. “Any complaints?”

Again Jaskier was shocked when no one said anything, not even the bastard from earlier.

Geralt squeezed his arm, once, before letting go. “Good,” he said, stepping back from the ladder, silent permission. “He will be staying with me.”

Jaskier blinked, looking over at him. They hadn’t discussed _that_. But before he could ask any questions the deck was full of the crew and he didn’t really feel like talking much. He stayed in a corner, pressed against the railing, as the ship took off on the rocky waters. Geralt had left, probably to do some captaining or whatever. Jaskier really wished he knew more about pirates suddenly, beyond the stories his mother had told him as a child, all wrapped in frilly bows and providing no actual _useful_ information.

It was relaxing, at least, the way the ship rocked on the waters, swaying under his feet. Jaskier imagined some folks wouldn’t like it, but he always had been odd in his own way.

Turning away from all the unfamiliar faces, he watched as land disappeared from sight, just water for miles and miles in every direction.

“Jaskier.”

He startled, jumping around. Geralt was back, no longer wearing his jacket. His chest was exposed in the shirt he was wearing, just inches and inches of skin, dusted with hair. His chest, like every other part of him, was scarred. His hair was pulled back in the messiest bun he had ever seen. Jaskier blinked, looking away.

“You didn’t tell me we’d be sharing a room,” he muttered, cheeks warm and not just from the sunlight.

Geralt sighed heavily. “You will be staying with me for two reasons. First and foremost, we have no vacant rooms,” he said. “But I know what you’re thinking, and I can’t fault you for it. Your instincts should be trusted; you have them for a reason. Secondly, I know my men. I travel with them because they are capable and smart, not _good_. They can’t think you’re an easy target or they _will_ put their claws in you. But you do not have to worry; I will be sleeping on the floor.”

He was telling the truth; once they were in his cabin, a few hours later, Geralt prepared a pallet on the floor next to the bed, hard and lumpy.

“I feel weird sleeping in your bed,” he remarked, mouth twisting in a frown. “I should take the floor.”

Geralt stood up. “No,” he said without looking. “Get in bed,” he commanded gruffly, and Jaskier shivered, feeling oddly warm as he slipped under the cover, a ratty blanket with concerning stains. Satisfied, Geralt reached over and pinched the candlewicks between his fingers.

The room was dark, nearly black. Roach had a cage in the corner of the room, quiet for once as they both settled in for the night.

Jaskier fidgeted with the blanket, rough between his fingers. He glanced at the floor but it was too dark to see much of anything. This was probably a dumb idea, trapping himself on a ship with strangers. But he still had his dagger, hidden in his right boot. Rolling over, he tucked his hands under his head.

“Sleep well,” he said quietly.

Geralt just grunted in the dark. Jaskier smiled slightly, closing his eyes.

*

Jaskier rolled over, groaning. He rolled over the other way, curling up.

“Jaskier,” he heard through the rushing in his ears. “Jaskier. Hey, hey, you’re okay.”

Startling out of his sleep, he sat up with a gasp, chest heaving as his eyes focused on Geralt, just a few inches in front of his face. It was still mostly dark but the candles had been lit again, casting the room in a golden glow.

He groaned, clutching his stomach. “I don’t— _feel_ so good,” he muttered, eyelashes fluttering. Geralt produced a wooden bucket. Jaskier grabbed it. “I—I don’t understand,” he said once he felt like he could talk again.

Geralt had settled next to him on the bed, looking more amused than anything. Bastard. “You’re just a little seasick,” he assured him.

“But—but I wasn’t,” he stammered. “Earlier, I mean.”

Geralt nodded, taking the bucket away and handing him a canister of water, already open. Jaskier drank greedily. “It’s different, being awake and sleeping. Your body just isn’t used to it.”

He finished what was left in the canister, licking his lips and feeling only slightly guilty. “I—I feel better now,” he said, cheeks reddening. “Um. Thank you.”

Geralt nodded, standing up. “You should try and get a bit more rest,” he said, turning away. Jaskier’s eyes flickered to pallet on the floor, heart pounding.

“Wait!” he exclaimed, grabbing his wrist.

Geralt stiffened for a split-second, as if he wasn’t used to being touched, before he turned to look at him, visibly relaxing. “What is it?” he asked, only slightly impatient.

Jaskier smiled sheepishly. “You could, uh, sleep with me if you want,” he said before quickly adding, “I mean, not like _that_.” Even if Geralt was undoubtedly the kind of man he had always pictured in his bed when he was lonely at night, pleasuring himself. Geralt stared at him, the candlelight flickering behind him. “I just, the bed is big enough for both of us,” he continued, a little quieter. “And it _is_ your bed; you shouldn’t have to sleep on the floor.”

“Okay,” Geralt said finally, surprising him.

Jaskier blinked. “Um. Okay,” he said, nodding, scooting over.

Geralt sat on the bed, which squeaked under his weight. The bed _was_ big enough for both of them, but barely. Jaskier was squeezed between the wall and the warm length of Geralt’s body, but he was hardly complaining. Geralt rolled on his back, staring up at the ceiling. “You should be more careful,” he said. “Don’t be so trusting.”

“Are you saying that because you want to protect me,” he teased, poking him in the arm.

Geralt turned his head to look at him. He hadn’t pinched out the candles, and Jasier could see the lines of his face in the glow of the room. “Maybe,” he said, an odd quirk to his mouth. Jaskier’s heart skipped a beat. He turned away again. “Get some sleep while you still can; mornings are busy.”

Jaskier nodded, face burning as he closed his eyes.

*

Jaskier quickly learned a couple things over the next few weeks:

Firstly, he didn’t like the other crew members nearly as much as Geralt; they were sleazy and greedy. If they weren’t outright ignoring him, claiming they were just doing what Geralt had asked when confronted, they were stealing his food, which wasn’t very much to begin with, at breakfast or supper.

Or knocking him down and laughing like it was an accident. But he didn’t care; he could handle their crap. He was eighteen, almost nineteen, not a _child_. If they wanted to act like that, he could take it. He knew he could tell Geralt if he wanted to, and _he_ would take care of it, but he didn’t see the point. It was just some harmless bullying.

Secondly, and more importantly, Geralt never hung out with the crew, not even during meals or when they were partying, usually on weekends, popping open a bottle of alcohol and hanging around on the deck long after dark.

Geralt always returned to his room early on those nights. Jaskier had lingered behind a few times, not wanting to interrupt, before finally following him. It was a boring sight, truthfully—Geralt, sitting on the bed with a book perched on his thighs. Roach was on his shoulder, quiet company.

He looked up, frowning a bit. “Are the others bothering you again?”

They were, but he didn’t say that. He walked over and sat gingerly at Geralt’s feet. Roach squawked, once, ruffling her feathers before relaxing again. “Why don’t you ever join them?” he asked quietly.

Geralt hummed. “She likes you,” he remarked. At his confused expression, he clarified, “Roach.”

Jaskier blinked, smiling slightly. “Really?” he asked, not quite believing it.

“You should see how she acts when any of the other crew members step in my room,” he replied with a hint of amusement.

Jaskier ducked his head. “You didn’t answer my question.”

Geralt was silent for a long moment. Jaskier could hear the distant chatter of the crew, up on deck. “I just don’t enjoy their company,” he said finally, closing the book in his lap. Jaskier peeked at the cover, but it was too worn.

“But you enjoy the company of Roach?” he asked knowingly, an amused curl of his mouth. Geralt laughed, a snort of air. Jaskier’s heart flipped in his chest, counting that as a win. “But don’t you ever get _lonely_?”

Geralt sighed, shrugging his shoulder. Roach flew across the room, landing in her cage. “I don’t know,” he said, sitting up straight, book slipping out of his lap. A mix of complicated emotions flash across his face. “Maybe I did, in the beginning, but I learned my lesson.”

There was a story there, thick and hanging in the air between them.

“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” he said quietly, “but I’m all ears if you do.”

Geralt let out an almost bitter laugh. “I don’t have to do _anything_ I don’t want to do,” he said roughly. “I am the captain of this ship, Jaskier. Don’t forget that just because I was a little nice to you. That’s stupid and dangerous.”

Jaskier felt the words like an arrow through his heart, twisting painfully. He looked away, pursing his lips. “Right, of course,” he said around the lump in his throat.

Perhaps he had a point. He couldn’t pretend like he didn’t know the truth about them, about Geralt and the rest of the crew. They were thieves, and murderers. He had even heard a few of them bragging about it, obviously trying to intimidate him. He wondered if Geralt had killed before—how many of those scars were a result of a bloodbath.

“You should sleep,” Geralt said after a long moment, standing up. He left the book on the stand by the bed.

Jaskier scooted up the bed and grabbed the book, opening it. “Huh?” he breathed, flipping through the pages. Most of the pages were unreadable, aged and torn. Jaskier flipped to the front of the book again. There was something written on the inside of the cover.

_To Geralt,_

_— Renfri_

*

Jaskier tried to sleep, really, but he couldn’t. He climbed out of bed and tugged on his boots before leaving the cabin. He searched for Geralt around every bend, and eventually the deck but he was nowhere to be seen. Sighing, he leaned against the railing, staring at the dark sky. At least he hadn’t gotten seasick again since that night.

Finally he heard footsteps. Perking up, he turned around, but—“What do you want?” he asked sharply. It wasn’t Geralt, but one of the older gentlemen that had given him the creeps since the boarding the ship. He hadn’t bothered to learn most of their names, since they didn’t deserve the effort.

“Looking for your little bodyguard?” he asked, slinking forward like a cat.

Jaskier stiffened, folding his arms over his chest. “Fuck off,” he said. “I want to be alone.” He started to turn away when his arm was suddenly grabbed, too tight. He yelped, mostly out of shock. “What the fuck?” he exclaimed, loud on the quiet deck.

The man leaned in. His breath stank of alcohol, sharp and bitter. “Do you think you can replace her?” he asked, smiling nastily. “He’s just using you for some cheap entertainment, boy. He’ll abandon you at our next stop and never look back.”

“Let me go,” he hissed, thinking of the dagger in his boot. But the grip on his arm was too tight; he couldn’t reach it even if he wanted to.

“At the very least,” the man continued, leaning closer, too close, “he could be kind enough to _share_ —”

Jaskier stiffened, goosebumps on every inch of his skin. Suddenly the man slumped forward against his chest, limp and unmoving. Jaskier scurried to the side, watching as the body fell with a _thump_.

“Are you okay?” he heard through the rushing in his ears.

Jaskier looked up. “Geralt,” he breathed, shivering. “He’s a fucking—”

“I know,” he interrupted roughly, mouth twisted in a frown. “I’ll take care of it.”

Somehow he believed him. He gripped the front of his shirt. “I was looking for you,” he stammered, still full of adrenaline, pulsing through his veins. “I don’t want to get off,” he continued. “At the next stop. I—I want to stay.”

Geralt stared at him. “I don’t understand. You were just attacked and you want to _stay?_ ”

Jaskier let out a sharp laugh. Yeah, it was kind of confusing. He clutched the front of his shirt, biting his bottom lip. He noticed Geralt’s eyes flickering to his mouth, urging him on. “I want to stay,” he said, “because I know I don’t have to worry about these creeps. Because you’ll protect me, right?” he asked, heart pounding. “Like you did tonight.”

“Jaskier,” he said tightly. “You’re being careless. You should go back to sleep and reconsider—”

He tugged on the front of his shirt. “I’m asking for what I want,” he interrupted, “because I’m not too much of a coward to be honest.”

Geralt breathed out through his nose, something like a snort. “Sleep,” he said, gentle but firm. Jaskier frowned, displeased. Geralt took his hands in his own. “We can talk more in the morning, okay?”

“You’ll be joining me?” he asked hopefully.

Geralt’s eyes flickered to the man at their feet, still unmoving. “I will,” he said gruffly. “Later.”

He kept to his word, like a true captain. Jaskier was almost asleep when the door opened again, creaking loudly. He opened his eyes, peering through the darkness as Geralt entered the small room, kicking off his boots. “What did you do?” he asked, unable to help himself.

Geralt pulled back the cover. “Don’t worry about it,” he said. “Just go back to sleep.”

Jaskier yawned softly and turned over, facing him. Satisfied, he closed his eyes and dozed off again.

*

In the morning he saw the crew member still on deck. Evidently he hadn’t been thrown overboard. He looked like crap, eyes nearly swollen shut, nose crooked unnaturally. He looked at him, and he stiffened, expecting _something_. But he just looked away again. Jaskier’s heart pounded in his chest as he searched for Geralt. When he found him, he was by himself like always.

“You—you did that?” he asked.

Geralt was reading _that_ book again. “I taught him a lesson. He’ll be dropped off at our next stop.”

“But not me,” he said, though they still hadn’t discussed that.

Geralt grimaced, closing the book and looking up. “Is this _really_ the grand adventure you were hoping for?” he asked, sarcastic and sharp. “You don’t have to get off with him. I understand why that would be idiotic, but we can make a—”

“Geralt,” he interrupted, stepping forward. “Who is she?”

He stared at him, expression perfectly blank. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Renfri,” he said, and there was no missing the split-second flinch. “Who is she?”

Geralt looked down at the book, traced the swirls on the cover with his fingertips. “Not here,” he said finally, gruffly. Standing up, he walked to his—their—room, closing the door behind them. Jaskier hesitated for a moment, standing awkwardly in the middle of the small room. Geralt nodded at the bed and he sat automatically. “Did one of them tell you?” he asked with a frown, pulling forward the only chair in the room, small and wooden.

“Kind of,” he admitted, fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, “but I saw her name in the book before that.”

Geralt nodded, sitting down. He still held the book, almost protectively. “She was a young woman, about your age.” He stared ahead, eyes glassy and faraway. “She was a lot like you, actually. Curious about the world, looking for something… _more_ , as she always used to say.” Jaskier was silent, afraid of breaking the moment. “I let her travel with me—with _us_ for a year.”

“And what happened after that?” he asked, finally speaking.

Geralt smiled grimly. “She died.” Jaskier’s stomach lurched, even though he’d been expecting it. “It wasn’t exciting or anything like what you’re thinking. She simply fell sick. We were too far from any land, and our healer couldn’t do much for her. When we finally docked again, at this small town—Blaviken—we stayed for a bit, buried her.”

Jaskier swallowed around the lump in his throat, fingers twitching with the urge to reach out and _touch_ him. “You loved her,” he whispered. It wasn’t really a question.

“I did,” he said stiffly, “and she died because of it.”

Jaskier blinked. “What are you talking about? She was _sick_ , Geralt. That’s not your fault.”

He looked away. “I knew it was unsafe for her to stay with us. There are _risks_ , Jaskier.” He looked at him again, eyes hard. “Not just the obvious ones. I tried to talk her out of it, on many occasions, but she was stubborn. _Annoyingly_ stubborn. She always stayed. If I had just… _tried_ harder, she might still be alive today. If she had been somewhere, some town, with better healers, she might’ve been able to fight it.”

“That sounds like a lot of _ifs_ ,” he said firmly. “You don’t know what would’ve happened. You never will and it’s—” Jaskier paused for a moment, really took in the lines of his face. “It’s killing you. You’re killing _yourself_ with your own guilt.”

Geralt’s eyes darkened, dark with rage. “Don’t speak as if you know me,” he hissed.

Jaskier leaned forward, heart pounding. “I know you better than your own crew does,” he shot back, “because you are so fucking _scared_ of getting hurt again, you’d rather just push them—push _everyone_ —away and lock yourself in your room like some fucking _coward_.”

“I’m not a coward,” he replied sharply.

Jaskier raised his eyebrows, unwavering. “ _Prove_ it.”

Geralt growled, lurching forward. The book—that he had treated as so beloved—dropped to the floor with a _thump_ as he kissed him, clutching the back of his neck. Jaskier gasped; he’d been _hoping_ for it, he hadn’t been _expecting_ it.

“Geralt, Geralt,” he repeated like a prayer against his lips.

He shifted, pressing him back. Jaskier didn’t fight it—Gods, why would he _want_ to? On his back, Geralt balanced over him, his hair falling over his shoulders like a waterfall, tickling Jaskier’s face.

“Beautiful,” he breathed, just like the first time he had seen him.

The corners of Geralt’s mouth twitched, almost a smile but not quite. “You deserve better,” he said, gruff and thick with emotion, emotion he had never heard from him before, special and just for him. “Just like she did.”

Jaskier imagined what she had looked like—the one who had captured Geralt’s heart before him. He expected to feel jealous, maybe, but all he could think was: _I hope she gave him the love he deserved, even if just for a year._

“Stop talking,” he said gently, “and touch me.”

Geralt leaned down, burying his face in the crook of his neck. For a moment he didn’t say or do anything, just breathed in and out, slow and steady. Jaskier didn’t push him, just placed his hands on his back, needing to _touch_ him.

“You’ll regret this,” he said finally.

Jaskier rolled his eyes, hands moving up his back, curling in his hair. “You don’t get to decide what I will and won’t regret,” he said, soft but firm. “ _Or_ what I want.” He tugged on his hair, arching his back, their bodies pressing together. “Do you understand?”

Geralt didn’t answer, just let out something between a sob and a growl, suddenly biting his neck. Jaskier groaned, toes curling.

“Yes, yes,” he gasped. “ _Geralt_.”

*

When Jaskier opened his eyes, he startled, reaching out, expecting the worst, _but_ —his hand landed, heavily, on Geralt’s chest, peppered with hair. He blinked, vision clearing. Geralt stared down at him, propped up against the headboard.

“You’re still here,” he breathed, awed.

Geralt nodded, looking torn. “I’m still here.”

Jaskier didn’t know what to say to that, not at first. He wiggled up the bed, leaning against him. Roach squawked from her corner and he visibly startled, looking over at her. Geralt turned, nosing at his hair with a soft snicker. It was—a lot, somehow, all of this. Being here with him, _after_. But it was a good kind of overwhelming. It was _exciting_.

“Was she there when we were—” he started to ask, but stopped when he saw the expression on Geralt’s face. “Right, okay. That’s fine.”

Geralt snickered again. “She’s seen worse,” he assured him.

They were silent again after that, for a few long minutes. Jaskier’s eyes flickered to the small stand by the bed; the book had been placed there, picked up at some point, probably when he was sleeping. He could hear footsteps above them.

“You’re afraid,” he said without even meaning to, deep in thought. He imagined what Geralt had been like, the first few weeks after her death. He surely hadn’t been comforted by the others; he had survived it, all the pain and guilt, on his own.

He wasn’t sure what he’d been expecting but it _wasn’t_ :

“Maybe,” he replied, perfectly even, “but I have my reasons.”

Jaskier pulled back a bit, just enough to look at him. “You aren’t like the others,” he said, soft and true. “You are a _good_ man, Geralt. What happened was not your fault, and she was lucky to have known you. To have _had_ you.”

“But—” he started, and he could _see_ him closing off again, pulling back from him.

Jaskier cupped his face between his hands, sudden. “Fate brought us together,” he said, “because _you_ are what I’ve been waiting for, Geralt. What I was _chasing_. Not some grand adventure.” He leaned in, paused for a moment, their noses brushing. “ _You_ , Geralt.” He could feel it, somehow, though no words would ever be enough. For the first time ever he felt like he was right where he was supposed to be. He kissed him finally, a soft press of lips.

Geralt pulled back after a second, searching his face. “What if—”

“ _Shh_ ,” he interrupted before kissing him again.

*

The deck was somehow, miraculously, mostly empty when they finally crawled out of bed, sticky with— _well_. They washed off with a rag before slipping out of their room and taking to the deck. Geralt tugged him to a corner of the deck, sitting on one of the barrels. Jaskier sat next to him and they halved a loaf of bread for breakfast, watching the sunrise.

“I’m going to try,” Geralt said eventually, staring at the sky.

Jaskier looked over at him. He wasn’t missing much; his beauty easily outweighed even the most beautiful sunrise. Geralt swallowed audibly, pointedly not looking at him. “What?”

“To—be better,” he said with a shrug. “Allow myself—”

When he stalled for too long, Jaskier reached out and placed a hand on his arm. “Some happiness?”

Geralt nodded stiffly, still not looking at him. He didn’t mind; he leaned his head on his shoulder and turned back to the sunrise. He felt warm all over, and it wasn’t _just_ from the rising sun. It was from the warmth of Geralt’s body, from the warmth inside his own chest. The warmth of his flushed cheeks. He smiled, turning to press a kiss to his shoulder.


End file.
